Haunted Decision
by writerofholby
Summary: a story starring Ange Godard in her younger years, pregnant.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! I'm a new writer! This is a story about Ange Godard from the BBC TV show Holby City**

She walked along, dragging her feet, scraping her toes along the pavement. She craved the feeling that gave her; to feel the floor beneath her feet when thoughts floated around her head like the snowflakes drifting from the pearl white clouds. This was harder for her than a blizzard, the snowflakes floating just out of reach, dizzyingly slow, melting as she grazed them with her fingertips. She hated feeling like this, the lack of control without the panic, it was scarier than the fast, frenzied attacks, more abstract somehow.

Knowing it would swamp her mind if she wasn't careful, she sank down onto the wall, shivering, her fingers like icicles. She smoothed her hand over her subtle bump, not quite yet obvious, but growing by the day. It was the delirious confusion that overwhelmed her. It couldn't be more different than last time, and neither could her choice. Her little girl was going, more certain, not being born. However, she couldn't rinse the images of the first born out of her head... twisting and spiralling around... that little boy. Not hers anymore, but she didn't think she could love him any less.

Sometimes she thought it was the guilt, all that was pushing her through. She dragged herself to her feet, unaware of how long she'd sat there, utterly and completely consumed by her thoughts. It was like a power that had no concept of time, rationality, truth, reality even: the monster creeping around in her head.

This monster had a name, and a face somedays, those were the worse days. It took on the form of that man, the night she'd never forget. On the better days, it was just the anxiety, the hatred, the fear. All of these things had so much more control than her joy, more control than all the thoughts that made her buzz with euphoria last time. This contrast was what made her convulse back into reality. She was suddenly acutely aware of the sobs, racking her body, her shaking only matching the shivering, tears freezing into crystals of truth as they rolled down her face.

Her walking had no direction, it merely consisted of putting one foot in front of the other, pounding like her heartbeat. Her eyes were still glazed over with tears, knowing that if she blinked, they'd only be falling again. She didn't know where to go, yet her footsteps were leading her into an area that felt like home, not that she belonged anywhere anymore. Her eyes flickered up to the rooftops, almost watching, expecting to see someone with their toes over the edge, someone who had got one stage further than she had, got over the icey metal barrier that seemed like the end. Fundamentally, she just couldn't draw a line under it all, not while she felt so sick, the niggling feeling that history might all be repeating itself.

She dodged the ciagrette butts, and crushed cans of lager and monster, litter seeming as essential as rocks and fallen leaves in this part of Glasgow, not that there were many trees anyway. The crumbling, red brick buildings slumped over in tired rows, only 10 or 20 years old, but seeming like they had been there forever. The twisted, midnight black, railings clawed into the walls like talons, holding on by fingertips, forming balconies that seemed more like prisons to the deprevation rather than an escape to the outdoors as all the brochures promised.

After all, she had always felt closer to her dad than her mum and it was only natural that she felt closer to his roots than her mother's; her mother, who had escaped the minute the door creaked open only a slither. She pictured her mother, and that man, curled up in bed, visions of oblivious love clouding all judgement, warm dry and happy in the rich bliss of the glasgow hills.

Awfully familiar, the deep pain in her insides began knotting tight, as her short, nibbled fingernails dug into the palms of her wounded hands. She had realised where she was. It was a pure yet twisted fate that had led her here. rippling, the pain sent flashes of light in front of her eyes. She traced the outline of the gates that had become far too familiar over the last year. 


	2. Chapter 2

'Glasgow City Cemetery', it read. And in there, squatting behind more important features, was her dad's grave. The only way he could get back to where he belonged, home, was at the very end. Slowly, sluggishly she pulled herself over the high, jagged stone wall, and prepared herself for the tears that would inevitbly fall down her icy, tingling face.

Absently, walking without taking a step, realising without a thought in her head, she had reached her father's grave. With the twisted gold lettering dancing across the headstone, she twisted her mind back to those golden precious nights, alone with her dad. Devestated, she registered deeply how her dad had run away from his roots, from here, and justified too, it was hard but happy here. But he'd run away thinking he was blissfully happy and in love. He'd hooked on the desperate notion that money made everything.

She realised in that moment, twisted in desperation, dispair and nostalgia, that she couldn't run for the hills like he did, she couldn't take the path that everyone told her to, with miliary regularity. No. She'd do what she felt was right, what she wanted more than anything. She realised how much she'd been punishing herself by telling herself no, harming her mind all for the guilt of the first time. With the sobs racking her body, shaking in the crisp december air, she knew that she couldn't abort this baby.

She knew she had to carry on, and she cried for the past, and cried for the future, for one day that pounding heart, and river of tears, would belong to her baby girl, and one day the shaking of sobs would become shaking of joy and laughter. She knew that this little girl was hers, and hers to stay.


End file.
